


Fulcrum - The Tragedy of Henry, Lord Darnley

by virginandmartyr



Category: Historical RPF, Mary Queen of Scots (2013), Mary Queen of Scots (2018), Reign (TV)
Genre: Character Study, F/M, Just a slight warning because Darnley was around 15/16 when he had his first sexual encounters, M/M, Nothing explicit though!, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Underage, Tudor Era
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-04-08 10:39:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19105423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/virginandmartyr/pseuds/virginandmartyr
Summary: “Did you ever love me, Henry?”“Perhaps,” he tittered. “I can’t recall.”





	1. The Punishment

_**1556 – Temple Newsam, Yorkshire** _

_Thwack!_

The cane ripped into Henry’s upturned palm, making him wince. Flesh, once ivory and cool, had been stripped raw and throbbing. In his immature mind, this punishment was unwarranted, undeserved even. He had only been seeking some harmless diversion with the servants. Why could his mother not understand that?

_Thwack!_

Like a burst dam, tears sluiced down Henry’s feverish cheeks and a mangled cry was wrenched from deep within. He refused to restrain himself any longer. Let his mother see the despair she had caused. Let her weep, console and forgive him with a plethora of kisses and sweetmeats. It had worked many times before. It would work again.

“God’s blood, Henry!”

The expletive shocked him enough for him to momentarily neglect his performance. Margaret Douglas was a woman who typically prided herself on her collected demeanour, but Henry could see now that that veneer was beginning to splinter. She lowered the rod and moved with lethal grace towards Henry’s cowering figure. Talons pierced his jaw as she yanked his head up, forcing their gazes to meet.  
“Tell me, Henry, why are you being punished?”, exasperation lacing her tone. He shrank from it. He decided to feign ignorance.  
“I don’t know, mother.” A shadow passed over her features, but still he persisted. “Truly I don’t. I promise.”  
His babbling was cut short with a grimace as Margaret sunk her nails in deeper.  
“Do not lie to your mother, Henry. You know how I loathe it. That’s not how good boys behave.” She spoke slowly, eloquently, allowing for the blatant disdain and condescension to burrow under Henry’s skin.  “Good boys do not go gallivanting through fields with mere paupers. Good boys do not spoil their best doublet and hose in the process.”  
Each diatribe was punctuated by Henry’s soft sobs. “And good boys certainly do not blubber like some mewling chit. Henceforth, I expect you to carry yourself with the deportment of a gentleman. You’re on the cusp of manhood, my love, and I expect you to behave as such.”

White hot rage festered in Henry’s gut – his first instinct being to rail against her. To thrash, to kick, to shriek until he was blue in the face. He was _entitled_ to have fun. Nobody was condemned to Hell for having a _little_ fun – despite what his pious tutor would have him believe. But the gravitas of that stare made him reconsider. Petulancy would be futile; he would just look like a fool. So following his better judgement, he relented.  
“Yes, mother,” swallowing all dissenting thoughts with a gulp.  
Margaret caressed his hair with practised ease – it came as clemency.  
“That wasn’t so difficult was it, nay?”  
Henry sniffled, smothering his face into his mother’s stiff bodice. Blood oozed from his wounded hand, seeping into the fabric of her dress. If she objected, she gave no indication. Margaret eventually pried herself away from him and examined her handiwork.  
“My dear boy, I barely scratched you. I think you’ll live, so I’ll have no more tears,” she said, with mock disapproval. “Shall I administer some salve? Would you like that, Henry?” Her dulcet tones almost made him forget how monstrous she had been. Almost. But his mother had returned to him – his true, immutable mother. All tender smiles and imperfect ardour.

Perhaps he would remember this lesson. Or perhaps not. He could not quite puzzle out what the purpose of it was. A terrible memory would plague him until his dying day. He would forget almost all acts of generosity, altruism and passion bestowed upon him. And if he pondered on it for too long, he would surely begin to sulk. And that certainly would not do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I felt as though this situation was prime fodder to showcase the control and influence that Margaret Douglas had over her son, Henry, Lord Darnley. Perhaps if she had been more consistently stringent with him, he may not have developed such a mercurial, demanding personality.
> 
> I intend for the next chapter to progress onto the year 1559, where Henry travels to France and encounters Mary Queen of Scots and her first husband, Francis II...


	2. The Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Henry travels to the French court and meets Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland and France, for the first, and by no means final, time.

_**1559 - The French Royal Court** _

 

Mary Stuart, the queen, nay woman, seated before him was quite the conspicuous thing. A lithe body, encased in the latest French vogue – his mother would scorn him if he made such a remark aloud. Henry realised that she shared his sovereign Elizabeth’s auburn hair and florid complexion. ‘How coincidental,’ he thought. Clearing his throat, Henry bowed with idle reverence to the queen.

Henry found himself rather enamoured with her eyes – almond-shaped and slanted with an inherent sensuality. He noted, with delight, that his appraisal was reciprocated. She was by no means an Aphrodite, but clearly no wilted milksop either. The obstinate tilt of her chin spoke of voluptuary promise.

“Your Majesty,” he said, with a flourish. A wry smile tugged at Mary’s lips.  
“Henry, Lord Darnley, I presume?” Her French was exquisite – lilting and musical. Even to an unattuned ear, one could detect her playful mood.  
“Indeed, your assumption would be correct, madame. As far as I am aware.”  
Laughter gushed out from her. Genuine laughter. Henry was suddenly overwhelmed by an instinctive desire to please this woman. Not simply because it would be politically expedient to do so or because his uncle had commanded it.

“We are well met, cousin. To see you in such fortuitous circumstances gladdens my heart. Although, please allow me to offer my condolences at the loss of your father-in-law, the late King Henry.”  
“You speak to me as though we have met before, my lord. Tell me, do you address Elizabeth with such informality?”  
“Well, madame, that’s presuming, once again, that I consider her worthy of such affection.”  
Mary’s eyebrow quirked. Her interest piqued, she indicated to the stool beside her. “Come, please sit.” An order, phrased as a request.

As Henry drew closer, he was privy to the light smattering of freckles across her cheeks. Her elegant fingers were clasped together on her lap – in anticipation or solemnity, he could not discern. No matter.  
“You appear to have a knowledge beyond your years. I admire your candour, my lord.”  
How it rankled to be reminded of his youth, and subsequent inexperience. “I pride myself on knowing my value and intent, madame. I believe that to do so is of the utmost importance in this... fraught political climate.”  
“And dare one ask, what _are_ your intentions, my lord?”

Henry looked at her pointedly. Now was the opportune moment. To ingratiate himself into her fold and lavish Her Majesty with bountiful gifts for favour. It was one of his many duties, as an obliging son. But as Henry gazed into Mary’s enigmatic face, he did not yet see a reflection of his own desires. No doubt Mary was accustomed to the swathes of sycophants that plagued royal courts. But he did not want to be amongst those ranks. For now.

So instead, with that admired frankness, he said, “Whatever you wish them to be, madame.”  
Mary’s expression froze. She considered him for a heartbeat. Eventually, her resolve began to thaw and her smile returned, illuminating the entire chamber.  
“If you are indeed at my disposal, I must insist that you provide me with some entertainment. We have no instruments to hand, but your mother’s letters to me in the past have suggested that you are a gifted wordsmith. Would you care to substantiate such a claim? With a song, perhaps?”  
“Willingly, madame. I enjoy a challenge,” Henry said, returning her smile.

As he rose from the stool, Mary interjected. “Indeed, Lady Margaret praises you so vehemently in her letters that one might question her motives.”  
Henry swallowed. A treasonous insinuation perhaps? But Mary’s face was the picture of innocence – as if referring to a topic no more innocuous than the weather. Delicacy would be required here. “I confess that my mother can be shrewd, but what mother does not enjoy praising her sons. There is no real design behind it, I assure you. She is, after all, still your devoted supporter for your bid for the English crown.” Henry silently prayed that Mary’s attention would be diverted at the mention of the English succession.  
“Because it would benefit _her_ most precious _son_ , would it not?” Her smirk taunted him.

Inwardly, Henry shuddered, but his courtly façade did not falter. He adopted, instead, a ponderous tone; trying to call Her Majesty off the hunt. “If you speak of matrimony, forgive me, but you are happily wed to one of the most powerful princes in the world. Besides, such subterfuge is beyond me, madame,” dismissing the notion with the wave of a hand. “May I, with your permission, begin my performance?” Mary nodded, but Henry knew that she had only been momentarily placated.

Beneath her supple surface lurked a fearsome spirit that enthralled, yet petrified him. Sickly King Francis had to contend with such a creature; Henry could not decide whether to envy or pity the man. And so, when Mary’s slanted eyes filled with delight at his serenade and when he felt the first flush of desire upon his cheeks, he did not chastise himself.

‘This is how it shall be,’ he thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For this chapter, I really wanted to higlight how right from the offset, Henry and Mary’s relationship was that of cat-and-mouse. Constantly manoeuvring and speculating, despite being entranced by one another. 
> 
> I intend to expand the world in the next chapter by possibly having Henry explore the sordid Parisian underbelly. I wanted to keep this chapter intimate and personal though.

**Author's Note:**

> I felt as though this situation was prime fodder to showcase the control and influence that Margaret Douglas had over her son, Henry, Lord Darnley. Perhaps if she had been more consistently stringent with him, he may not have developed such a mercurial, demanding personality. 
> 
> I intend for the next chapter to progress onto the year 1559, where Henry travels to France and encounters Mary Queen of Scots and her first husband, Francis II...


End file.
